For as long as Harry could remember he had been the only man to work in District 8 as a weaver. District 8 specialized in making textiles, this included but was not limited to sweatshop-style factories of all different sorts: much like the weaving one Harry worked at.
He was a weaver for various reasons, the main two being his abnormally large hands and the fact that he weighed approximately 85 lbs on a good night. Every morning he woke up at the same time, gathered the minuscule amounts of treats he had baked the night before, kissed his sister Gemma good morning, and set off into town to sell his pastries before heading to the factory at noon. The streets were never particularly crowded when he set off to do his morning runs, which didn't bother him. He had a tendency to get lost in the traffic, the sea of bodies often carried him away with their shoving and trudging. It was a nice morning, the sun had just broken over the dull clouds and you could almost see it through the smoke from the factories, just having peaked through cloud and smog. The amount of people in the streets was incredible, and by incredible he meant terrifying, everyone was rushing out of their small homes to soak in the sunshine, including Barbara. Barbara was a short, plump old woman who Harry sold cakes and biscuits to in the morning, he always saved her the best ones and for that she paid him a little more than everyone else, well that and Harry always pretended not to notice when she pinched his bum as he walked away, the money she paid him wasn't much but Harry couldn't complain, it kept their meager meals on the table. The rays of warmth on his arms were too much to pass up. He paused briefly to roll his sleeves up to his elbows, they were pale, his skin translucent enough to see the intricacy of his veins. "Barbara.." he called, spotting the older woman amonst the crowd.
"Oh Harold, have you brought me some nice buns today?" Barbara winked at him, she was still raunchy as ever. He had to give her some credit though, she never quit.
"Barbara, do you know why everyone is acting so strange?" She was obviously avoiding his eyes.
"I'm not sure what you're talking about Harold." She looked around till she spied the old clock tower in the middle of town "Ah, it's almost noon sonny, shouldn't you be at the weavers by now?" Sly old woman, Harry thought as he dashed his way through the crowds mumbling half-hearted apologies as he bumped into a few strangers. He arrived at the weavers, chest heaving. Harry's asthma had been getting worse lately, due in parts to the terrible weather they'd been having and his own general poor health. It was always damp in the Styles' family home, the wetness seemed to work its way into his chest as he slept and accumulate all night until he woke up, coughing so hard into his palms that it woke Gemma, his sister, from the other room. "Harold, where have you been? We were worried" said a sweet older woman, Harry could not remember her name, but it was only the sweet older woman who called him Harold. "Sorry, the sun came out today and i guess i got a little distracted." he shrugged and chuckled. These woman he worked with were always worried about him, he found it endearing.
"We didn't know if you had taken the day off." said another woman, she was younger than the first, probably in her thirties with blonde hair that hung in tangles around her face.
"Why would i take the day off?"
"Tomorrow, Harry...please tell me you didn't forget!" the woman sighed, clearly exasperated with him already. "Have you not noticed all the new Peacekeepers that have come into town?"
"New Peacekeepers, why would new Peacekeepers be here unless..."
The woman just shook her head at his naivety, Louise...that was her name.
"Harry, The Reaping is tomorrow."
"The Reaping happens every year at the same time, i understand why everyone else is scared but i'm not...not really" Harry shrugged, this ritual of selecting two random children, one boy and one girl, from each District to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death had been going on for twenty-four years. This was the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games, and it all kicked off with the Reaping. Harry had watched friends, and acquaintances, classmates, and bullies be chosen at random to be sent to the Games, none of them ever came back. The thing about a random draw, is that it is not biased, the bowl does not decide your fate, and although the person picking the names physically draws them out they don't know the people they call out. No Harry wasn't scared, he didn't see the point of being scared when the outcome was out of his control. The women stared at him, faces ranging from worried to confused. They didn't understand why he wasn't terrified and that was okay by him. As he set off to his loom to weave he couldn't keep from thinking about the calmness of all the citizens, it was an eerie sort of calm, like they knew something bad was going to happen but weren't going to tell anyone regardless. He started weaving and as he wove a knot of apprehension formed in the pits of his stomach, the Reaping was tomorrow, and everyone seemed to be on edge, everyone seemed to know what was going to happen except him. It was a bizarre stillness, as if they were in the eye of a terrible storm. The knot did not disappear as he wove, his hands gliding across the loom with the ease of someone who had done it for a lifetime, it seemed to only grow as the day wore on. Something was going to happen tomorrow, he could feel it, something huge, something groundbreaking perhaps. Nothing good would come from worrying like this, however as his twelve hour shift proceeded it seemed the only he was capable of was exactly that: worrying. His muscles, what little he had, were tense and his neck and wrists were stiff with strain. He clicked off his dim, bare bulb and walked towards the door. "Alright ladies, i suppose i will see you" Harry paused, and thought about when he would next see these women. "I guess i'll see you after tomorrow." The women wouldn't look at him. "Okay, well I've got to get home...Gemma's probably worried about me." Harry shuffled out the door perplexed by the women's odd behavior, he realized with a start that Louise had not been there. He saw a silhouette just out of reach of the street lights. "Louise, Lou...is that you over there?" Harry squinted trying to make out the shape of Louise's slight frame and her hanging hair.
" 'arry?" a voice sniffled
"Louise, are you crying? Are you hurt?" He slowly made his way towards the lamp post.
"No, you stupid prat!" That was definitely Lou, no one enjoyed calling Harry a prat more than Lou Teasdale, well no one but his sister, Gemma.
"Lou what's wrong?" he had made his way to her, slowly but surely, and put a hand on her shoulder. She turned to look up at him, the light from the lamp reflecting the tears streaming down her face. "Lou what's happened, what's wrong?" Harry was thoroughly worried. Louise never cried.
"Harry" she whispered "...i'm pregnant"
"With Tom? Lou that's grea.." Harry stopped when he saw Louise shake her head..
"No, Harry, no it's not. I don't want to bring a child into this life. This life of struggling and starving, and death and violence, i don't want that for my baby." she was crying again.
"Hey..no, Lou it's okay." he did the only thing he could think of and hugged her "it'll be okay" she punched him lightly in the side.
"You're so stupid kid" she sniffled into his chest, and then suddenly looked up "I just want you to know, whatever happens tomorrow, that it was not me. Promise me you'll remember that Harry. Promise me." she sounded so desperate.
"Yes, of course i promise!" whatever it was supposed to mean. Louise shook her head.
"Just go home Harry." she turned in the opposite direction of him and walked away, shoulders hunched against the chill of the night air. It had gotten damp again.
He tried to keep close to the street lights that still working in District 8, but those were few and flickering when they did happen to work. There wasn't much crime in Harry's hometown but the bursts of violence were occurring more and more often. He walked as quickly and quietly as possible through the streets, silent except for the scuff of his ragged boots on the pavement. A noise, like someone had dropped, or thrown a bottle, on the ground, sounded to his right and he walked briskly. A crash of boxed, about fifty feet behind him startled him into a jog, whoever this person was they were clearly not worried about stealth because they made no show of hiding their presence. It wasn't until he heard the sound of shoes pounding the ground behind him that he ran. He ran recklessly, snagging his sweater on every available piece of outstretched metal. Harry was fairly tall for his sixteen years, but his muscle mass had been severely diminished by a lack of protein in his diet, or really a lack of most nutrients, he was basically a walking bean pole, tall and skinny with bones sticking out everywhere, sometimes when he got bored he would see how many of his ribs he could count. Because of these reasons, running wasn't exactly Harry's strong suit, but he fled until he felt like his heart would implode in his chest. He stumbled towards a tower of empty shipping crates behind a factory that made Peacekeeper uniforms and crawled underneath one, the combination of poor lighting and box frame shielding him from his assailant. Harry's heart screamed inside his chest, it cried for air but try as he might none would come. He scrambled, hands shaking, for the inhaler in his sweater pocket, only to find a gaping hole where it formerly resided. He tried to calm himself down, as Gemma had sometimes done when he was younger and had nightmares about the Reaping or their parents deaths, but his head felt light as if it were drifting slowly, and painfully away from him. Coherent thoughts flowed in a sluggish motion, complete and yet clearly missing pieces, he couldn't quite remember how he had gotten in this particular section of town, or why he had been going this way in the first place, all he could think of was the astonishing amount of time he could remain conscious without a constant flow of air into his lungs.
"I know you're in here," called a voice, clear and high in tone, the voice of an angel Harry thought briefly, he could have chuckled were it not for his current state of disarray. Perhaps he had in fact died, and this angel was here to carry him to the afterlife. It seemed so silly for Harry to have worried about the Reaping all these years, only to die in the streets like a common urchin, he hoped Gemma would be alright, he was all she had left.
"Hey, kid" the angel said "I'm not here to hurt you, that is, unless you're rabid." Harry could picture the smirk forming on the angel's face. Harry bet that he, the angel, was beautiful, they always were. Weren't they?
"I want you to come out slowly, alright, no funny business." the angel's voice made everything sound more lovely, even words like 'funny business'. Harry didn't want to upset the angel but the best he could manage was sliding onto his stomach, his left shoe poking out from under the crates. He was breathing again but not nearly enough. His head felt fuzzy, like a bear's bottom.
"They do not pay me enough for this" the angel sighed "Are you on drugs, morphling maybe?"
Harry tried to answer that: No he wasn't on drugs, that he could barley afford food for Gemma and himself; how could he possibly purchase drugs. But all that came out was a rattled wheeze.
"Shit!" Harry didn't think angels were allowed to swear.
"I thought this might belong to you" the angel said as he started pulling boxes away from Harry. "C'mon kid, respond!" the angel had finally pulled the last box from Harry's hideout, he could now get a good look at his savior. The man had brown hair, lighter than Harry's, stubble on his cheeks and chin, and an impish face that Harry was sure would be charming had it not looked so worried, regardless, the angel-man was beautiful. He thrust the inhaler into Harry's hand, and with shaking hands Harry brought it to his lips and pressed the nozzle. His lungs filled with the sweet sensation of air. Too much air actually. He gasped and coughed until he felt the angel's hands on his shoulders steadying him. He grabbed Harry's face inbetween his hands, which were warm and rough. Harry hadn't expected the angel's hands to be rough, he couldn't imagine angels doing much manual labor.
"Are you alright,chap?" Harry blinked slowly once, hoping the angel would take that for a yes, he was far too exhausted to even consider moving. Running should be considered inhumane.
"Are you breathing fine?" the angel looked at him with narrowed eyes. Harry blinked once again, his former assailant-turned-rescuer's hands were still on his face, making his skin warm, extremely warm, it was almost uncomfortable.
"Does your head hurt?" Harry had just blinked again when the angel shouted at him "Are you stupid! Why do you keep blinking at me! Why are you-you're shaking." The frustration fled from the angel's voice and Harry realized he was indeed shaking, all of the heat in his body had rushed to the places where the angel's hands rested.
"Do you think you can manage to speak...in words?" Harry gave a slight nod, and he was released, the heat immediately scrambled to the rest of his body.
"I-i'm fine" Harry stammered, he just wanted to go home now.
"Do you need help standing up?" The angel asked wiping off his pants. Harry nodded not trusting his voice fully. Harry clasped the angel's outstretched hand and again the heat flew straight to his palm, the rush making his legs unstable, or perhaps it was still an after effect of the lack of oxygen.
"Perhaps next time you'll be more careful when walking home at night, eh?" Harry looked behind the angel and saw a man unconscious on the cold ground, two think trickles of blood flowing from his mouth and nose. The angel-man saw Harry staring and smirked, that smirk was as charming as Harry had thought it would be, "He's fine, just a minor concussion...probably. He was really rude." Harry felt the lightheadedness return to him, a side effect that would most likely linger with him for the next hour, he scrambled to find a wall as the black dots came rushing at his eyes.
"You alright, kid?" Savior-angel-man's eyes narrowed, Harry would have bet his Tesserae supply that they angel's eyes were as stunning as the rest of him, if not more. Harry had meant to say yes and wave the saint off, but when he opened his mouth all that came out was his meager dinner from that night. He felt his knees buckle and strong arms pick him up, the bearer of said arms muttering the entire time how he was definitely not being paid enough to be up all night. Harry, in between bits of passing, felt the man's palm pressed against the small of his back. He still wasn't sure if his savior was man or angel, maybe both, he had never met a man so beautiful, but angels were not supposed to be snide and temperamental...were they? He feared he may have mumbled some of his thoughts aloud, for the mysterious gent laughed, a pleasant hearty sound. He gave up and embraced unconsciousness, lulled to sleep by the steady beat of the man's heart, Harry was warm in ways he had never truly been before and for now that was enough.